The Last Days of Max Payne
by Pat Taylor
Summary: In a sweltering Indian summer, Max and Mona make plans to escape the city in which they feel they have nothing however, they will have to contend with a ruthless enemy and a mysterious fatal disease. Set a year after the events of The Fall of Max Payne.
1. Prologue

**The Last Days of Max Payne**

**Part One: The Shadow Before**

_Prologue_

New York, the last days of the summer. Through the open window a hot breeze gently rustles the blinds, the smoke-choked breath of the city pressing in on my apartment. Already the symphony of the night is starting up, and the sun has yet to vanish over the horizon – the car alarms, the smashing bottles, the laughter. Tonight, however, beneath that blood red twilight, the city is quiet. Tonight the city is mourning. I light up a smoke and take my mind back three months, back to the night it all began – back to when New York became a nightmare.

It started on a pleasant June night, the height of summer. Her name was Maria Escobar, a young, pretty girl with ash-brown hair. A normal young woman with a part time job in Spanish Harlem. She'd told her parents that she was going out drinking with friends, and maybe that's where she began – but that's not where her night ended up. By the time the last rays of sunlight had become milky silhouettes on the horizon, and the lights of the city had flickered into brilliant glitter, she was in a small third-storey apartment. With another woman. According to the other girl, a bank assistant called Carrie Neville, Maria had wandered into the bathroom for a quick smoke. She'd had a few drinks, had started complaining of a headache. Through the blinds night-time was crawling in, laden with foreboding. From the moment Neville told me that story I could picture her – a pretty girl, slumped over a dirty porcelain sink, her hair hanging limp over her pale face, cold sweat rolling down her gaunt cheeks. Coughing her life away. She'd think it was the smokes at first. Then she'd realise that the coughing wasn't stopping, and then she'd look down in the sink – and she'd see the clots of blood, a dirty forewarning of what was to come.

Carrie found her lying on the tiles. She'd thrown up and looked skinny and pale. The sink and the dirty floor tiles were splattered with blood. Carrie called 911. The ambulance came quickly, a luxury that has long since vanished in this city – but it was still too late. She was DOA when they got her in to the hospital. When they got her on the slab, I got the call. I was out cruising, a homicide detective, back on the streets after all the inquests and the internal affairs grilling. An average cop with a clean slate, my past history all but forgotten – buried beneath an avalanche of paperwork and bureaucracy. Nothing left but the memories, and even they were fading away, lurking only in the darkest hours of the night – only resurfacing at three in the morning, when I'd wake up on the couch soaked in cold, shaky sweat. The mortician thought there was foul play going on. She was right.

She escorted me to Escobar's body, and gently pulled back the white cloth. I should have seen it then. The death of a woman. The start of all the problems in my life. I should have seen the city's fate in her pale cheeks and her frightened, staring eyes. Instead I played it as business as usual. I dragged in suspects. I questioned her parents, her girlfriend. I looked over Neville's shabby Mid-town apartment, the blood dried to maroon streaks on the floor. I delved into her shady past. Little did I know that already the bodies were starting to pile up.

Just two days later a young gay man was found dead in the toilets of a nightclub, soaked in his own blood. Same symptoms. He'd gone pale, he'd caught a fever, and then the coughing started. The death rattle. By the time they got his corpse into the hospital he'd gone pale and stiff. Later that night his partner was taken in with the same symptoms. By the time they got him up to surgery he was dead.

Within a week forty were dead, all with the same symptoms. It had began somewhere in the gay community, but by the end of the week it had spread beyond that, and cases were cropping up all over the city. It didn't discriminate. Anyone could fall victim to it. It took women, children, the elderly, all without mercy. Bodies were found in alleyways and clubs, in the crumbling slums of the city. Only when a promising young legal executive was found dead in his office did the tabloid press grab the reigns of the story, and they milked it for all it was worth. The headlines screamed 'PLAGUE' and talks of the second coming of AIDS were rampant. Some hack named it Miasma – the mysterious, fatal gas – and the name stuck.

The shadow of Miasma had fallen on New York City.

By August the death toll was well into the three-hundreds, and then the panic began. The hospitals were swamped. Doctors were helpless to stop it. Everyone the disease touched died. There were no survivors. Once you got that headache, you were marked for death. By the time the coughing began, you knew it was over. Cases were reported in Chicago and LA. Politicians made speeches promising to fight it, to little avail.

By the end of the month the death toll in New York alone was pushing up to the edge of triple figures. The hospitals were full of the sick, the dead lying with the dying. Bodies began to show up everywhere, always with that splatter of blood around the top of the chest like a guilty child smothered in jam. I was dropped from the case. This was no longer a matter for the police, the higher-ups had decided. This was a major medical crisis.

I took a long drag of my smoke. Somewhere down below a car alarm burst into life, a banshee wail on the hazy summer air. Now they reckoned Miasma had claimed as many as a thousand lives, and the death toll was rising. No-one knew where it came from. No-one knew how you contracted it. It just struck suddenly and killed even quicker. And outside the streets had never been quieter. There was noise, but it was empty. Miasma was a fog that had descended silently over the city, without a warning.

Behind me a door creaked open.

"Max," said a voice from behind me. A voice laced with crushed glass, a voice worn down by years of tragedy and torment. But it still stirred emotions within me that I thought had died with my wife.

I hadn't seen a lot of Mona Sax since the inquest. She spent some time getting patched up in the hospital after the Manor incident of two years ago. We were separated for most of the inquest that followed – the questioning, the internal affairs interrogations. All the official crap. I'd played the right cards. The Inner Circle, a Masonic cult at the heart of the government, had imploded and collapsed. The government knew I'd been at the heart of the whole affair. If the questioning got too intense they knew I'd let slip some very incriminating information. The higher-ups in government had decided that the Inner Circle was a mess they wanted cleaned up quickly and forgotten about. If that meant clearing all the charges against me, then so be it. I was released on lack of evidence and put back on the force. It didn't make me feel any better. But I ignored it, let it become another chapter in my life.

Mona had played the same cards, but she didn't have my connections. She was still facing imprisonment for killing Senator Sebastian Gate, an Inner Circle member. She slipped away from the hospital one night, and after that I don't know what happened to her. Only that one day she found me in this run-down apartment block, and since then she had drifted in occasionally. We didn't speak much. She just appeared, we made love, and then she vanished like a ghost of a past I'd tried to forget.

But tonight was different. I could sense it in the determined tone of her voice. I didn't have to turn around to see her worried face.

"We have to leave this city, Max," she said. "There's nothing left for us here. Either of us."

"You're a fugitive, Mona," I replied, not turning around.

"And you think you're hands are clean?"

She was right. I was as guilty as she was, no matter what the law said. "So what are you suggesting we do? I blow town with you, a fugitive, just as I'm starting to piece my life back together?"

She moved up behind me and gently rested a hand on my shoulder. Ice cold. It sent shivers down through my body that settled into a warm glow down in my chest. When Mona touched meit felt like an electric current, fusing my empty dead cell with new life. "Don't tell me this city isn't killing you, Max. The memories. The enemies. Let's leave. Let's make a new start."

I crushed the cigarette out on the wooden window-ledge. She was right. Whatever I had ever had in this city had died with Michelle. Now there was nothing but pain and suffering out there in the night. Whatever life I had left lay with Mona.

I stood up and reached for my jacket. Then I grabbed my Berreta, enjoying its comforting warmth. It was like embracing an old friend.

Then, time for one last journey through the night. To finish it all off.

We left the building.


	2. Chapter One

**PART ONE: The Shadow Before**

_**Chapter One: Symphony of the Night**_

As I stepped out of the doors of my apartment block, I passed through a wall of heat that felt like all the fires of hell. Outside the city was blazing, and it wasn't holding up against the heat. The asphalt underfoot had cracked and buckled. Those who had spent the daytime out on the porch had retreated to the safety of their indoor air conditioning. I had the street to myself. I wiped the moisture off my brow and tried to adjust to air that felt as cloying as the inside of an oven.

Mona and I were leaving New York. My car waited a short way away. Mona had agreed to hide in the trunk until we were safely out of the city. Smuggling her out could be difficult. As it turned out, getting Mona out the apartment would be the least of our problems.

We had decided to separate. She left through the back exit and promised me that she would find her own way out. I had strict instructions to wait by my car. I knew trusting her wasn't the ideal solution, but I no longer had a choice. If we were doing this, we were doing it together.

As I made my way across the crumbling streets, I tried to shake off a crushing guilt. Was this running away from my problems? Was I turning my back on everything – not just the nightmares, but the commitments? Was I cutting off whatever me and Michelle had left in this world? Above me a halogen street-light burst rudely into life, a gentle hum filling the thick air. Almost instantly a family of mites gathered around it. Made me think of myself. Was I just blindly following the light, thinking that it would solve all my problems?

I fought to shake these feelings off. When I left New York, the Max Payne who had committed those atrocities, the broken and shaken man, would be a distant memory. I could start again. And maybe I could banish the nightmares once and for all. That was the light I was aiming for. Maybe it would burn me on the way there, but I was willing to take that risk.

I reached the edge of the apartment plaza, the old brick buildings behind me crouching lower like a slumbering beast. Before me lay the streets of Manhattan – crumbling, scorched and desolate. My way out of here.

I almost dismissed the first gun shot. Not until it thudded loudly into the windshield of the hulking old Mustang just yards away from me, leaving a vast spider-web of cracks on the dusty glass. I stared in horror at the brilliant white bullet-hole, but only for a split-second. Animal instinct took over and I dived behind the rusty automobile as another bullet ricocheted off the asphalt right where I had been standing, leaving a brief trail of brilliant sparks.

I reached for my Beretta. What the hell was going on? Was this Mona's doing?

I cautiously peered around the edge of the car, my gun held close. I scanned the scenery ahead of me. Looming apartment blocks, their dark forms pitted with dull lights. Parked-up cars on the sidewalk. Distant water towers and antennas, all shrouded in the early twilight darkness, all set against the bleak purple sky. A thousand nooks and crannies to conceal a sniper. If he'd had a little more skill my head would have been reduced to red dust by now. I had to lure him out somehow, but as soon as I left my cover I knew he'd take aim – and there was no way he would miss this time. I'd had my two chances.

Only one chance to get out of this alive. I reached for my cell phone, tucked away in the recesses of my leather jacket.

"Mona?" I whispered hoarsely, surprised at the weakness of my voice.

"What is it, Max?" she replied.

I need you, I thought. I'm helpless without you. "I'm under fire. You need to check out the area for me."

"Okay," she replied. "Where are you?"

"Behind an old Mustang, on the corner of Fourth and D. Please, Mona…" I gasped. "Please hurry."

I hung up.

Slowly I peered around the edge of the car again, and what I saw almost made my heart stop. Three men were approaching the car. In the bright white streetlights I could make out their firearms. Looked like Kalashnikovs. Some pretty heavy duty firepower, especially considering…

I took another glance, unable to believe my eyes. They were wearing police uniforms! They were cops! As I crouched back behind the car, I tried to make sense of what I had seen. But it didn't fit. It was like an old painting, the watches melting on the branch – two images you're so used to seeing, but suddenly overlapping each other in a way you could never imagine. Those guns weren't police issue. But they were coming for me. Which left me with two choices. And no way was I about to bring down a cop.

No time to think. Holding my Beretta high, I leapt to the left, for the safety of a nearby alley. The hail of bullets whispered past me, a clattering symphony mingling with the cries of surprise from the cops.

I fell hard against a brick wall, deep in the shadows. The lane led to a small back door in the apartment block and a chain-link fence, topped with barbed wire. By the time I got to the top of that fence, the cops would have cut me in half. Left with one course of action, and time was running out. Outside the lane the cops were coming to their senses.

"There!" one cried. "Down the lane!"

"Nail him!" another replied.

A clatter of footsteps, growing louder. Gaining on me.

I sprinted for the peeling green door, muttering desperate prayers. Behind me the cops were reaching the edge of the lane and they were reaching for their shooters. I leapt over the small concrete staircase and grabbed the latch on the door.

As I did, my heart sunk.

Locked.

Nowhere to run. No choice.

I rolled for cover behind the concrete staircase. It would buy me a few more precious seconds, seconds that were rapidly running dry.

And the footsteps were growing closer…

To be continued…


	3. Chapter Two

**PART ONE: THE SHADOW BEFORE**

**_Chapter Two: A Lose-Lose Situation_**

Maybe I'd gotten cocky. Maybe I'd just played the hand of fate a little too hard.

But now I was stuck, pinned behind a concrete staircase, dodging bullets that flew past me like hailstones. Occasionally a shot would hit the staircase, showering me briefly with concrete dust and shards of rock. They were getting more accurate. And they were getting closer.

I closed my eyes and waited for the gunfire. My stomach tensed in anticipation, preparing itself for annihilation.

A shot rang out in the alleyway. I winced.

Surprised cries. More shots. And then I realised that I wasn't listening to the clack-clack-clack of an AK, but the steady blasts of a Desert Eagle – and the surprised cries were mingling with screams of agony. A cop slumped dead just inches away from me, a neat smoking black hole in his skull. He quivered briefly, and then died.

The air, thick with cordite and the coppery stench of blood, was suddenly blanketed in silence. I cautiously stood up.

"You okay?" Mona asked. My guardian angel. She lowered her smoking gun.

"Fine," I replied, still shaking. "Mona, listen…"

"No time," she said, striding towards me. "We've got to keep moving. They'll send more…"

"Mona, they're cops!" I cried, as she walked up the concrete staircase. "What the hell is going on here?"

She stopped suddenly at the top of the staircase and glared at me. "Do you want to get out of this alive?"

"You're not answering me…"

"Do you?" She reached into a pocket and withdrew a small key. With surprising speed she unlocked the door, and at least one mystery crumbled. Somehow she knew the building, and somehow she had access. But with it came a thousand new questions, and I didn't like the answers.

I grabbed her arm and spun her around. "Listen! You just shot dead three cops without batting an eye! Cops armed with AKs, and they were coming for me! Now either you tell me what the hell is going on, or I'll hand you in."

She stared back at me with steely grey eyes. She didn't even flinch.

"Make the call, then," she said, nonchalantly. "Hand me in. Go on."

She had me. If I wanted to get out of this alive I had to follow her, whether I liked it or not. Damn you, Mona. I released my grip. She frowned and opened the door, slipping back into the apartment building. I followed her in.

"They'll probably surround the building," she said. "If we're quick, we can make our way out of the first floor window and down the fire exit. Then it's just a short run to the car park, hopefully before they surround the place." She locked the back door behind her. "That'll buy us some time. Come on."

And before I could re-assemble my thoughts, we were making our way back through the crumbling corridors of the apartment block. What had began as something simple had suddenly descended into a surreal nightmare. It all seemed so overwhelming… the corridors became a maze of too-bright fluorescents, peeling wallpaper, damp stains. Normality was such a fragile skin. It could be torn and destroyed in a New York minute, and suddenly you'll find your life has collapsed around you again, and all the old ghosts you thought were dead forever are flying back in. The thought terrified me. It stirred old fires back into life.

Mona stopped suddenly as we reached a turning and pressed up against the wall. She cautiously peered around the corner. I could hear it now. Footsteps, on the tiles. Drawing closer.

"More of them," she whispered, reaching for her Desert Eagle.

"Cops?" I asked.

She flipped off the safety. "Three of them. Not cops. Hired thugs."

I reached for my Beretta. Only one way out of this. I'd left the rules behind at the front door. I'd followed this course of action now.

They were talking loudly. I could just make out their words.

"The boss said keep an eye out," one said. "They're slippery bastards."

"Hardcore professionals," another replied. "I've read the stories. I don't like this."

A third voice. Stronger than the others. The leader, I guessed. "I don't care. After what they did to the guys outside, I'm more than willing to plug them both."

Mona gently pushed me backwards and crouched down. "Head for the staircase over there," she instructed. "They're mine."

I followed her gaze to a small concrete staircase leading down into the basement. Crouching low, my knees like jelly, I crept to the staircase and ducked round the corner.

Silence.

Then three shots, deafeningly loud, like thunder in the confined space of the corridor. Cries of horror. Two more shots.

Then a dark, thick silence… and more approaching footsteps. From behind. I suddenly remembered Mona's words about the ambush and a grim panic took over. I carefully peered round the corner. Three more, advancing. Cop uniforms and Kalashnikovs.

The final decision, then. To seal my destiny once and for all.

To be continued…


	4. Chapter Three

**PART ONE: The Shadow Before**

**_Chapter Three: Sealing My Destiny_**

I leapt out from my hiding place.

I had a few mere seconds, the briefest moments in time, ahead of them. I had the weight of surprise. And by god, I was going to take it. Time seemed to slow down. The moment dragged out, and I could have lived a lifetime in those few seconds. One of the cops reached for his Kalashnikov, and fell into the sights of my Beretta. I slammed my finger on the trigger and felt the rumble of the gun in my hand, felt it reverberate up my arm, felt the flash of heat.

The cop's upper body was flung back in a spray of vivid red blood and his mouth opened in a helpless cry. I pulled the trigger again, and again. A bullet went wide, vanishing into the wall somewhere. Another caught him in the eye, throwing his head back and seeing him slump to the floor.

His companions were starting to react, reaching for their arms. I leapt for the cover of the far wall, spraying them with bullets, emptying the clip. Most of them ripped through the nearest goon, who swung around in a wild bloody death dance before landing hard on the wall.

As I hit the cover of a nearby alcove I caught his body slumping against the dirty wallpaper in the corner of my eye, watching as he slowly slid to the floor, leaving a trail of blood streaked on the wall.

The final goon unleashed a burst of fire in my direction. A few bullets clipped the side of the alcove, spraying me with paint and plaster chippings. I waited until I could hear his panicked advancing footsteps before swinging out from the alcove. I didn't give him a chance to react.

Instead I raised the Beretta high and aimed directly for his head. He opened his mouth to cry, but the sound never slipped out. Instead I silenced him forever with a bullet straight between the eyes. He slumped to the floor.

As silence reverberated down the crumbling corridor, I stood over three fresh bodies, my hands shaking, the taste of adrenaline fresh in my mouth. Already the coppery stench of fresh blood was rising in my nose, mingled with the scent of cordite. The last brass shell fell to the carpet.

What had I done? No time to think, no time to look back. No time to contemplate my crime. Run. Get out.

I turned away from the corpses, holstering my still-smoking gun. Somewhere up ahead was Mona, and my way out. I began to walk, to break into a run. My legs were shaking. I fell deeper into the nightmare.

Around the next turning lay three more bodies, and a lot of blood. The air, thick with cordite. Mona's handiwork. She'd shot like Annie Oakley. Two guards had neat bullet holes in their heads, the other a shot in the heart. Scattered around their fresh carcasses were hundreds of empty Kalashnikov shell casings. They'd had the numbers on their side, and they'd failed.

I stepped over them and stalked away. Silence everywhere. However, that didn't mean the corridors ahead were deserted. Come on, old man, I thought to myself. Make it to the staircase ahead. If you manage that, you're halfway there.

I began to break into a stride. I reached for my Beretta, still warm. So far, so empty. And far too quiet. Behind the peeling wooden doors the silence seemed deafening. In the dim twilight I couldn't help thinking of the dead men lying in those dark rooms, choked on their own blood, fallen in the grip of Miasma. Net curtains gently billowing open, trying to fill the stale rooms with fresh air, but always failing to carry out that sick smell – that cloying smell of death.

A single creak. I froze up. From behind.

I gently pushed up against a door and peered behind me. Three more of them. How long had they been following me? How long had they had the drop on me? My heart pounded in my chest. They could have pulled the trigger at any time. God, how did I let them follow me for that long?

Then, a choice. Face them… or run for the corridor.

I clutched my Beretta. Took a deep breath… and ran.

A hail of bullets flew past me as I rolled into view. I rolled out the way, and broke into a run. Come on, old man. Just a few more inches. The staircase could have been a million miles away. Keep them occupied.

I threw a few bullets in their direction, pressing my body up against the wall. That halted the barrage, if only for a second. I needed a gap through that wall of lead. I had it.

I leapt for the staircase, and burst into a full on sprint. Already the punishing barrage had started up again. Bullets whistled past, taking chunks off the staircase and the wooden rail, just inches below me. Make it up to the first floor. Make it that far, and you're almost there.

Then I felt my toe jam in to the edge of the step, and suddenly I was flying across the carpet, just as my fingertips brushed against the edge of the first floor. I hit the floor hard, the air rushing out of my chest.

And the footsteps were getting closer. And I was now in range.

To be continued…


	5. Chapter Four

**PART ONE: THE SHADOW BEFORE**

**_Chapter Four: Fight Fire With Fire_**

I rolled on to my back. Come on, old man. Just one chance to get out of this alive. You fight fire with fire, or you die. No way out. No compromises.

I yanked out my Beretta and slammed the trigger hard, aiming for the three hoodlums wandering into view. I didn't dare take my eyes off the targets. I didn't dare check the ammo. I just focussed and prayed.

The first goon took a shot to the head and fell to the floor wildly, pumping Kalashnikov bullets wildly into the air. Another, wiser thug slammed himself up against the wall, ducking out of the wall of fire as his comrade fell. The final thug pushed himself up against the opposite wall and took a shot at me with a Beretta. The bullet caught me hard in the chest, throwing me back against the step. I winced and cried out.

Ignore it. Just a flesh wound. Smoke rose up from the torn hole in my jacket. I returned fire. Three shots, all went wide. The goon took aim, and this time he wouldn't miss. He fell out of his cover, and made the mistake that would end his life. He fell into my sights.

I shot him, wincing at the pain as the recoil reverberated in my seared chest. The bullet caught him directly between the eyes and he slumped to the floor, his brains splattering against the wallpaper behind him.

One more left, and you can get out of here. Just take aim. Finish it.

He slid from behind the wall, his Kalashnikov held high. His vacant, cold eyes caught somewhere between shock, horror and dogged determination to end this. And a subtle hint of victory.

I pulled the trigger. A hollow clack.

It was over.

The goon wasn't taking any chances. He raised the Kalashnikov and took aim. I fumbled helplessly for extra ammunition in my inner pocket. None. No hope. Used up all my ammo, and used up all my hope.

A shot rang out. But not for me.

The goon slumped forward, clutching at his chest. Mona calmly stepped over his corpse, a smoking Desert Eagle held above her head. She tossed a magazine up at me. I caught it in mid-air, climbing to my feet. My chest screamed in agony as the torn muscles stretched. I winced and clutched at the wound.

"Head out through the window of the apartment behind you," she said calmly. "I'll meet you by your car."

"Mona, wait," I cried, steadying myself against the wall.

Footsteps. Coming from the corridor below.

"I've gotta run," Mona cried. She darted away down the corridor.

I turned away and staggered for the apartment door. Blood was trickling down my chest, beneath my shirt, down to my waist now. I needed something to keep me going. Anything.

I grabbed the apartment door. Locked.

No other choice. Ignore the pain. Lock it away. Put it in a small corner of your mind. Focus. I slammed my weight against the door. Fire burst up in my chest, hot and raw. The door creaked and budged slightly, but withstood the blow. Come on, damnit. You've been here before. This is amateur stuff for an NY cop.

Footsteps. On the stairs.

I took a step back and jumped, throwing as much as my weight at the door as I could. It gave.

I fell to the floor, grabbing for a small table the occupant had left nearby. It collapsed with me, throwing a vase to the ground. Hunks of brass and chips of wood fell to the dirty carpet.

I spun around and pushed the door shut, propping it closed with the small table. That would buy me a few more precious seconds.

And suddenly, left alone in the cold, dark corridor, I felt old urges rising up. I had to hold back the pain. I needed something to keep me in my feet. Just get me to the car. That's all I ask.

I stumbled into the bathroom, to a small medicinal cabinet. This bathroom had been empty for days. The air hung as thick as the air in a tomb. Everywhere, the smell of death. Not of fiery death under the bullet, not the cordite smell that accompanied me everywhere like a nightmare. It was the smell of sickness and of slow, painful death. Of weakness and frailty. Someone had died in this place, and it hadn't been quick and quiet.

I threw open the door of the cabinet. Hair products, toothpaste, digestive pills. I tossed them angrily to the floor. There. Shining like a gem. A small plastic vial labelled 'CLARITYN.' I unscrewed the lid and swallowed the pills greedily. The pain began to fade, replaced by a calming haze.

Outside, the goons were throwing themselves against the door. No time. Got to move. My senses were sharpened to a razor. Concentrate. Got to get out of here. I pocketed another load of painkillers and ran out into the den.

It really stunk in here. The blinds were drawn. Plates had been left on the coffee table, the streaks of long eaten meals gathering mould. But over it all was a cloying, sickly-sweet stench of forgotten death, rising from a half-open door. I didn't dare think of what lay within. Miasma had crept into this place and left behind it's calling card.

I stepped up to the window and hitched up the blinds. Past the dirty windows lay the fire escape, and my way out of this place.

I unlocked the French windows, just as the door burst open.

To be continued…


	6. Chapter Five

PART ONE: The Shadow Before

Chapter Five: A Banshee Scream

I stepped through the French windows, out on to the small balcony. The thick evening air was as cloying as that inside the apartment, but anything was better than the stench in there – even the smoky, fume-choked air of the city. Anything at all. Below me the cracked asphalt span out to the lights across the street. It seemed a hundred miles away.

Behind me the door came down. I flinched and grabbed the bar.

Come on. It's not that far. If I was lucky I'd make the jump and get by with a sprained ankle. If I was unlucky I'd break a leg and be left a sitting duck. I hadn't been lucky for a long time.

I leapt over the bar. My stomach lurched up into my mouth and all the weight in my legs seemed to swing up to replace it as I tumbled.

Then I slammed hard on the asphalt, crouching to absorb the blow, still feeling two bolts of pain flash up through my worn-out ankle muscles. I ignored it. Your legs are still working. Lock the pain away.

I pushed up and broke into a run. The car park was just a few precious yards away. I had them on my blindside. I could only hope that Mona was there waiting for me. The sooner we could get out of here the better. They wouldn't be distracted forever.

As I reached the small concrete entrance to the shadowy car park, a crumbling three-storey for residents, my heart was pounding hard, fire flaring up in my aching chest, my breath laced with ash. My ankles throbbed. I choked back a handful of painkillers, steadied myself against the concrete barrier, and made my way into the shadowy car park.

The first level was as quiet as a tomb, dimly light by bright orange fluorescents. Beneath the low roof the car park seemed to stretch on forever, fading into darkness. Ancient cars, rusty metal hulks from a bygone age, sat gathering dust in puddles of oil. Every car lay bathed in its own pool of shadow. Too many hiding places. Too many secrets. I reached for my Beretta.

Finally, I found my car – an old but reliable Toyota. Japanese cars – they looked like electric bricks, but they were damn faithful. The old girl had yet to pack in on me, and I'd taken her round the whole city, and beyond. All I could hope was that this wouldn't be the first.

I reached for my keys, and jumped so hard they fell out of my hands and clattered away on the concrete floor. There was a face looking back at me in the mirror. From behind. As my heart rate slowed I realised that it was Mona. She was giggling.

"Come on, pussy-cat," she smirked. "Let's get going."

I frowned and reached for my keys. Opening the door, the relief set in hard. The vanilla air freshener scent filled my head as I entered the car and sat down. The air inside was thick and hot. Seemed like even the shade wasn't safe from the sun. As I slammed the door behind me it felt like I was settling down in an oven. Mona sat down next to me.

"Little hot in here, huh?" she said, fastening her seatbelt.

"That's the way I like it," I replied, winding down a window. I turned the keys in the ignition, listened for the faithful first roars of the engine, looked up… and felt my heart sink.

Three men, police uniforms. Holding Kalashnikovs. Sealing off the exit.

"More of them," Mona said.

"I noticed," I grunted. The engine was stalling. I sighed. Come on, don't do this to me. I'm not going to die because of a damn stalled engine.

"Take it easy," Mona replied. She was reaching for her Desert Eagle.

The engine burst into life, a rebel yell that seemed to reverberate in the solemn thick air of the car park. The goons were cocking their rifles. Mona was winding down her window. The CD player buzzed into life and the throbbing beats of Sisters of Mercy filled the car.

"Focus on the driving," Mona said, releasing the safety. "I'll take care of our new friends."

I swallowed my fear and swung out of the parking space, turning sharply to face the attackers. They weren't going to waste any time.

Bullets rained down on the car. I ducked and gritted my teeth, slamming my foot down on the pedal. Next to me Mona was hanging out the window. There was a loud gunshot and the banshee squeal of tires. The wheel jilted violently beneath my hands.

"Max, look where you're going!" Mona screamed. Above me bullets tore through the windscreen, spraying me with shards of glass like diamonds. I leapt up, just in time to see the barrier.

A goon to the side attempted to reload. Mona terminated him with a single bullet shot to the head and he span to the floor. The car hit the barrier hard as a goon rolled out of the way, a heavy thud reverberating through the car as parts of the barrier flew past as and we screeched out on to the empty streets.

Behind us the remaining goons continued their barrage, bullets whistling past the car and scraping off the paintwork. The car made a hundred and eighty degree turn, letting off a banshee scream, and I jammed down the pedal, aiming for the end of the street and freedom. As we hit the road I caught a last glimpse of the goons behind us, attempting vainly to run after us.

But they were far too slow. We were on the road now, and we were leaving New York.

To be continued…


	7. Chapter Six

**PART ONE: The Shadow Before**

**_Chapter Six: The Shadow Before_**

We hit the road and soon the lights of New York, flickering into life in the dull purple sky, were flashing past us in a steady stream. A gentle, cooling breeze rustled through my hair. I peered through the broken holes in the windshield.

"We have to ditch the car," I told Mona. "It's riddled with bullets. Quickest way to get pulled over, and we won't be leaving the city through a cell."

Mona nodded. She was resting her head on her arm now, against the passenger window. Her eyes looked dark and heavy. In the brilliant fluorescent lights she looked horribly pale and old. A chill slithered down my spine.

"Mona," I said. "Mona, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she grunted. "Please… please, let's just get out of here."

I didn't like it. These days when people got pale and ill, it was less of a case of worry and more a case of counting down the hours. Especially when they looked as pale as Mona. Those shadows under her eyes were the shadow before. God knows I'd seen enough of it over the past few weeks.

I slammed hard on the brakes and swerved up on to the sidewalk.

She peered up at me, and her eyes looked as helpless as those of a doomed doe. I sighed and turned on her.

"Either you tell me what the hell is going on here, or I'm going to have to ask you to get out," I snapped. "You know about those cops. You knew we had to leave. Why won't you speak to me?"

She began to rub her temples. "Call the precinct," she groaned. Her voice sounded like broken glass and crackled like smoke. "There's your damn answer."

"The precinct?" I asked. "My precinct?"

She said nothing. I sighed and climbed out of the car.

We had pulled up outside a small dark park, an oasis of night in the never-ending glitter and brilliant fluorescents of the city. All except for a small pool of white light at one end, pooling on an old graffiti-stained basketball court in which a few teenagers shot some hoops and occasionally smoked in the shadow of an old oak. The roar of traffic seemed distant. Somewhere out in the night a dog balked.

I walked a short way down the sidewalk and into the light of a public telephone. As I grabbed the phone, I took a quick glance back at Mona. Her arms were folded tightly and she glared determinedly at me.

Swallowing my pride, I slammed a few dimes into the phone and dialled Jim Bravura's office. Four long rings dragged out. I tapped my foot on the buckling asphalt. Five rings. Six rings.

On the seventh someone picked up and an unfamiliar voice said, "Hello?"

I swallowed hard. "Who is this?" I croaked.

"This is Agent Troy Novak, FBI," the voice replied. "And who the devil is this?"

I had gone numb. "This is Detective Max Payne. Where's Bravura?"

Agent Novak sighed. I fought the urge to scream at him to hurry. "I take it you haven't seen the news this evening, Detective?" he said grimly. "Bravura's dead. Along with fourteen other officers. Shooting. We reckon it had something to do with gang warfare…" There was a short pause, and in the background I could hear distant whispers, concerned talk, urges for someone to trace the call. "… I'm sorry, Mr Payne. I understand these people were your colleagues."

I let out a long sigh. His words had faded out. Around me reality seemed to collapse, the walls weakened. The night seemed to drag out forever. I felt nauseous and disorientated. Bravura, dead? He'd kept me sane over the past few years, filled the void left by the death of my old partner. Kept me off the bottle. Suddenly I'd never needed a whisky more than now. I didn't dare look at Mona.

"Listen, Detective…" Novak said.

"What leads do you have?" I snapped. "Who's your suspects?"

Novak sighed. "If you'd just like to give us your position, Mr Payne, I can send some agents out to pick you up for questioning…"

I hung up. No way was I about to give our position away. Not now.

As I stepped away from the phone the world began to swirl around me. I could feel the sting of vomit at the back of my throat. The bullet wound in my chest throbbed violently. I choked back a handful of painkillers and walked, as if in a daze, to a newspaper vending machine across the street.

The headlines screamed out at me. FIFTEEN OFFICERS SLAIN. NEW YORK IN CRISIS TONIGHT AS NYPD COPS ARE GUNNED DOWN. MAYOR DECLARES OUR CITY 'A DISASTER ZONE' AS CRIME CRISIS WORSENS. The words were as potent as bullets. I swayed and walked back to the car, almost unaware of my own actions. As I sat back in my seat, the last thing I needed was Mona's knowing stare. And god, she looked so ill….

"You knew," I snarled. "How did you know?"

"You're next, Max," she said, almost nonchalantly. "Those bullets were meant for you. You got too close, Max."

"To what?" But even as the words left my mouth, I could guess her response. And dreaded it just as much. Surely not.

Instead of answering me she handed me a single sheet of A4 paper, with a few typed letters at the top, neatly formatted. An address. Not an instantly familiar address, but I knew the area. There seemed nothing special about it. Nothing to suggest what the darkest corners of my mind were hinting at.

BLOCKS 12 – 16

EAST COAST WAREHOUSE COMPLEX

EVERGREEN AVENUE

MANHATTAN

A warehouse in an industrial district.

"What does this mean?" I asked, folding it up and pocketing it.

"You want to know, go there yourself," Mona replied. "But if I were you, I'd put it out of your mind and get ready to leave."

The car was lit up by the blinding flash of headlights on the road ahead, and the screech of tyres. As the engine died, I felt a flash of panic at the occupants as they exited the ancient car.

"It's them," Mona gasped.

"Come on!" I cried, swinging open the door and grabbing Mona by the arm. We ducked down behind the car, trying to keep to the shade. Doors slammed. Men mumbled, angrily.

I glanced over the surroundings.

"Come on," I whispered, clutching Mona's cold wrist. "We'll cut across the park. To the old theatre."

We swept past a bush and into the shadows…

To be continued…


	8. Chapter Seven

**PART ONE: The Shadow Before**

**_Chapter Seven: Run Down and Derelict_**

"Where the hell did they go?"

A tall man, with a close brown crew cut. Steely grey eyes. Chiselled features. Looked like a former army brat. And beneath the brilliant white of a lamp-post, the anger on his face was clearly visible. As was the semi-automatic he held in his beefy hands.

"This has gotta be the car, Lenny," another man said, standing over the bullet riddled hulk that had once been a beloved, reliable family car, a hundred years ago. This man was shorter, blonde, and his eyes betrayed a very different emotion: fear. Of what, wasn't quite clear. His boss, maybe. Or maybe something else. Something lurking out there, in the darkness.

A third man – faceless, nameless thug – yanked the car door open and shone a pencil-thin torch around inside. Brief flashes of light, illuminating for a second shards of broken glass, torn rug, patches of broken leather, old discarded bottles and wrappers.

The leader circled the car, then grunted and kicked a door. His hefty black boot left a dent in the rusted metal. "Bastards!"

"Oh man," the blonde man croaked. "The boss is gonna kill us. Man, we're… we're dead men. Jesu…"

"Shut up!" the leader balked. He scanned the area, peering into the shadows. Allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Careful not to make a noise, he crept on to the grass. Into the darkness. And he surveyed the whole scene – every branch, every bench, every shrub that could conceal a man. And then he saw a flash, and suddenly his eyes were staring straight into mine, and escape seemed a distant impossibility. For a long time – for a thousand years, it seemed – those steely grey eyes focussed on me. Then he whispered something to his men. Holstered his gun.

"Mona!" I whispered. "Go! Now! Over there!"

I pointed to an old birch with long, drooping branches. Enough shadow.

She wasn't listening. She was reaching for her gun. "I can take them, Max."

"Not in your condition," I replied.

She slammed a clip into the Desert Eagle. "What condition?" she snapped.

"You're not well, Mona," I replied. "And you know it. If your senses are cloudy, there's the chance you'll miss. That's a chance we can't afford to take."

"Max…"

"Don't argue with me, Mona! Just go!"

She sighed, holstered her gun and slunk off into the shadows of the birch. The goons were getting closer now, all three taking up formation on the grass, guns close to hand. I reached for my Beretta and began to back off.

My heart pounded in my throat. I willed my feet to hurry, to not hit any branches, or snag a bush. The goons stopped at the bush just as I reached the birch and pushed up against it.

Suddenly the silence was interrupted by the deafening 'rat-tat-tat' of automatic fire and bursts of flame. I didn't dare turn around, but I could see the flashes, and the roar pounded in my chest.

"Come out, you son of a bitch!" the leader cried, after unleashing his clip. He slammed another home, mumbling "Damn."

The road lay just yards away from my hiding place. Mona was looking optimistically at the old theatre. I wasn't quite as enthusiastic.

The old theatre looked as if it had been out of use since the eighties, but probably hadn't seen its heyday since it was a vaudeville in the thirties. Those windows which weren't boarded up were shattered, revealing gaping holes of dusty, forgotten darkness. An ancient marquee still bore a few black letters that had once advertised a show. It was a big building, housing several auditoriums by the looks of it. An ancient and forgotten FOR LET sign was nailed above the marquee. Old, dark, forgotten – and, doubtless, full of crumbling architecture and a thousand broken legs waiting to happen.

Before I could stop her, Mona was on her feet and sprinting across the road, for the theatre. I went to cry after her, but sharply bit my tongue and fought it back. You give away your position now, and you're dead. Damn it.

I followed her to the theatre.

By the time I arrived Mona was already surveying the old broken windows, hidden beneath the shadow of the marquee. It had been locked and bolted up years ago. The windows were coated with dust and a huge spider web crack covered the bottom left of one. Beyond the foyer looked worse – a threadbare red carpet, littered with hunks of white plaster and rubbish, sat forgotten in the darkness.

"Cover me," Mona said, steadying herself against the door.

I reached for my gun and scanned the park. The goons were spread out now, searching the park. One flashed his torch around. Time was running out. They'd soon realise we were gone, and the theatre would be their first target.

There was a loud thud and the clatter of broken glass as Mona kicked open the door. The spider web had given in, littering the floor with broken glass.

"Come on," she said, gently pushing open the door and ducking into the shadows. I followed her and entered the old theatre, gently closing the door behind us. It would buy us time, maybe.

The lobby was in a sorry state. A crumbling food counter sat in a corner, the shattered popcorn machine gathering dust, the drinks towers rusting. The fluorescent street-lights outside cast long shadows across the torn carpet. I could make out Mona's dark shape, slightly hunched over, making her way to the nearest auditorium.

"I'm going to look for a back exit," she said. "Try and find some light."

I nodded and began to walk away, just as three dark shadows cast themselves across the lobby, and a familiar voice cried, "THERE!"

To be continued…


	9. Chapter Eight

**PART ONE: The Shadow Before**

**_Chapter Eight: The Show Must Go On_**

By the time I managed to react the three thugs had kicked open the door and were piling into the lobby, automatics held high. The adrenaline was kicking in fast. Fight or fly. Fight or fly.

"Mona, run!" I cried out, spinning around.

As the hail of bullets tore into the old ornate wood and brass work surrounding the entrance to the nearest auditorium, something told me I'd made the right decision. I ducked through the heavy doors, just catching Mona as she ran up the aisle.

"No!" I snapped, clutching her wrist. "This way!"

She swayed slightly on her feet, but nodded. Her wrist seemed too skinny… and too cold. Far too cold. Damn it, I thought, stay with me, Mona. Just get us through this, and stay with me.

I dragged her to a staircase against the far wall. The auditorium seemed vast – a dark cave, topped by high awnings that appeared to stretch up forever into the cobweb-blanketed shadows. The seats, sorry excuses of torn fabric and fluff, were innumerable, and in the darkness it wasn't too hard to imagine the ghosts of those who had sat here seventy years ago – the distant laughter of those trying to shake the blues of the Depression. I shuddered and ran for the staircase.

As we began to scale the rickety wooden staircase, I prayed that it would hold us. The last thing we needed now was a broken leg. Halfway up, we heard them, and I stopped dead, squeezing Mona so hard that she nearly cried out. She rested against the wall and, one hand clutching her head, listened.

"We've got 'em pinned down," a familiar voice said, into what appeared to be a mobile phone. "In the old theatre. Near Memorial Park. Could do with some backup. In…" He paused, and we heard soft footsteps as he backtracked. "Theatre Three. The big one. Yeah, send as many as you can. They're slippery bastards."

The leader slammed his phone shut and pocketed it. In the shadows I could make out the shape of the blonde goon, swiftly inspecting every row and cranny in the darkness. The leader stepped out and watched the exit. I wondered, with growing dread, as to what had become of the third thug.

"Come on," I whispered. "Let's move."

Mona nodded, stepped forward, and fell into my arms. She was ice cold.

"Max," she croaked. "I don't think I can do this."

"Just up this staircase, Mona," I said, helping her up. "If we can just get up here, maybe we can hold them off and I can call for help."

She nodded. I helped her up.

As we clambered up on to the balcony, a run-down alcove populated by a few threadbare seats, the dim ceiling lights began to flicker into life. It happened slowly, the lights warming themselves up after years of abandonment. But to my pounding, terrified heart, it seemed to happen in a flash, and suddenly we were exposed. The shadows retreated. And everything was visible – the auditorium, in all its run-down glory, suddenly shrunk in size. Cleaner's lights, I thought grimly. Been a while since they had to clean this place.

Me and Mona crept between the seats and pressed up against a flat chair. I could feel Mona's heart throbbing in my hands. Her eyes darted in all directions. I could feel myself reaching for my gun. Her life is in your hands, Max, don't screw it up.

Down below I could hear footsteps. "Got 'em working again, boss," a voice called from the entranceway. "Surprised they left all the fuses in, but there they were, big as damn it."

The leader grunted. "I'll let the boss know. They won't be able to hide now. Stay on the door." He took a few steps forward and raised his voice a little. "Any luck, Joey?"

"Looks empty," the blonde goon called back. "Gonna sweep the rows again, though, now that I got this light. Does one of you want to check out that staircase over there?"

A jagged bolt of fear shot straight into my heart, like an adrenaline pump.

"I got it," the leader replied. I could hear his footsteps now, getting closer, passing just beneath the balcony… and then climbing up the first steps. That tell-tale creak, getting louder. Mona began to shake.

"Stay down, Mona," I whispered. "Stay down. Keep covered."

I moved to a crouched standing position, creeping to the edge of the row. Waiting with growing horror for that blonde crew cut to pop into view. Or something else. The muzzle of a semi-automatic, perhaps.

There was a loud crash. I leapt and fell back against the chairs, the gun almost clattering out of my hand, sucking in a huge breath in fear of it being my last. The creeping stopped. Reversed. Grew quieter. Other faces, unfamiliar.

"Someone called for reinforcements?" a man growled below.

"Not if it's going to be you, Porky," the leader retorted, chuckling lightly to himself. There was light, frightened laughter. Far too many voices. Far too many men. All probably armed. Outgunned. Surrounded. I fumbled for the painkillers and began to wish I had a shot of whisky close to hand.

"How's the situation?" the man addressed as Porky asked, sounding gruff once more.

"Johnnie Chappell's been on the door for the past few minutes, I was keeping an eye on it before then. No-one's been out through any of the exits. They're somewhere in this room. We need to spread and find them." Footsteps. Moving. The leader's voice, slightly louder. "Make sure soon as you see them, you pump them full of bullets. They're slippery bastards, and they won't think nothing of popping a few in your face."

"Just cause they let you slip, hey, O'Neil?" Porky sniggered.

The creak on the stairs again. I slunk backwards, fighting for shade. I slipped the safety off the gun.

"I'm checking out the balcony," the leader called, his voice sounding horribly close. At the foot of the stairs, and drawing closer. He muttered, "Cocky bastard," under his breath. Then he climbed, a little faster this time, the gaps between the creaks shorter, swifter. Louder.

"You know the boss is coming down, don't you, O'Neil?" Porky continued.

O'Neil stopped with a sigh halfway up the steps, making the mistake that would end his life. I placed his position, roughly a few steps from sliding into my vision – into the range of my gun. The question, however, was whether or not I was willing to make that decision, now that god alone knew how many were down there. All fully armed. One gun shot and they'd all be on me. All I had on my side was the narrow staircase, and the clip.

"Alright," O'Neil cried out, his voice echoing lightly on the small stairs. "We'll bring them their heads as a welcoming gift."

Porky found this very amusing. His hoarse laughter, harsh wheezing expletives that echoed around the decaying auditorium, rang out briefly and then O'Neil was scaling the stairs again.

One step.

Two step.

The familiar blonde haircut flashed into view. His eyes caught mine. He opened his mouth to cry out, one hand rushing to his gun. Fast reflexes. Not fast enough. I pulled the trigger.

The top quarter of his head exploded in a cloud of red mist and he fell backwards, rolling down the wooden staircase and doubtless coming to rest on the dusty wooden floor below. Around me the shot rang out, bouncing and echoing back and forth off the walls like a horrible never-ending symphony of damnation.

"O'Neil," I heard Porky gasp, and then blind panic and realisation grappled wildly in his voice. "THERE! UP THERE! THE BALCONY! GO! GO!"

Footsteps, thudding on the dusty wood. Floorboards creaking angrily in resistance to this sudden onslaught after years of shady retirement. A whole host of creaks. I steadied the gun in my hand, waiting for the inevitable heads to appear.

Instead, the creaks ended, there were a few hushed mumblings, and then I heard Porky say, "This'll flush them out."

There was a soft, inconsequential jingle, like a milk bottle falling off a front step. I watched with dawning horror as the grenade rolled gently along the balcony towards me. No pin. It sat there, not in any way threatening, but suddenly I realised I was trapped, and it was all over. Footsteps fleeing back down the stairs.

I backed off, trying to call out to Mona. My mouth felt like someone had jammed cotton into it.

Then there was a flash of heat, a brief rain of debris, and the floor was falling away beneath me in a brief blaze.

To be continued…


	10. Chapter Nine

**PART ONE: THE SHADOW BEFORE**

**_Chapter Nine: Tumbling Into A Fiery Grave_**

I hit the benches hard and they crumbled beneath me, sending shards of wood into my back and leaving my covered in scrapes and grazes. Around me hunks of flaming wood tumbled down like small meteorites. For a second I felt an incredible blast of pain in my leg, and then the world faded into blackness.

As I blinked it off, as the world flooded back in a grey haze, I realised that I was in terrible danger. I lay trapped in the rubble beneath the balcony, my body burnt and grazed, my head spinning. The auditorium was full of men, all armed, all walking calmly towards me with a grim determination in their eyes. And victory.

I pushed myself up, wincing at the pain as I shoved my hand into a nest of smoky, jagged rubble. For the first time I noticed the flare of pain in my lower leg, and I saw in horror that a huge broken jagged end of wood was stuck in my leg, greased with my blood – the evil spike jutted out of my trouser leg. Streams of blood, horribly black in the shadows beneath the wrecked balcony, pooled on the floor.

Ignore it, I mumbled, reaching for my pistol. These guys will make that little graze seem insignificant. I opened fire on the approaching men, firing a barrage at them, keeping them back. The nearest man, who had been cocking his rifle, fell to the floor, clutching his gut. The others began to back off, rolling out of the way of the firepower. Not much time. Not much ammo. Hold them back. Maybe you can make your way out.

I pushed back, wincing at the sheer agony in my leg, pushing up against the wall. My leg, the gash in my trousers soaked in dark blood, a horrible fiery pain reverberating up into my gut, made me want to throw up. Keep moving. I opened fire on them, driving them back, limping on my working leg to the shadow of the staircase. My spare hand, the one scratched by the rubble, steadied myself on the peeling plaster wall.

They were recovering now, rolling into defensive positions, preparing to open fire. I was running out of places to hide. Keep firing. Keep them back.

A goon who was briefly firing at me from a nearby bench fell backwards, clasping his right eye. As he fell I noticed the blood oozing between his fingers. Others were standing up now, taking pot shots, calling out orders to each other. A bullet whistled past my right ear, another blew off part of my jacket, leaving a streak of smoke.

I fell to the floor, landing in the sawdust, feeling chips of plaster dust rain down on me from the gunfire. It's over, I thought.

Gunshots rang out in the auditorium. As I watched in astonishment, the goons began to look up in horror. One was thrown backwards by the force of a bullet, smashing into a bench. Another's face disintegrated in a brief puddle of blood. A goon reached for his semi-automatic, pointed it up into the air, and was thrown back by a bullet shot, his gun flying out of his hand and into the air.

"Go!" a voice cried from above. "Go, Max!"

I ran from out of my cover. Above me, resting on the rim of the balcony and clutching a Desert Eagle, was Mona. My guardian angel. Relief bloomed in my chest.

"Mona!" I called. "Can you make your way down from there?"

"I… I don't know," Mona replied. "My legs are feeling weak… look out!"

I spun around just in time to see three goons running at me, guns close to hand. I spun around, instinctively jamming one finger on the trigger. The bullet took out the goons kneecap and he fell to the floor, screaming in agony. Mona shot the man behind him in the chest, and his guts were blown out. He fell down. The third rolled away and I took the opportunity to make a break for it.

"Stay there!" I cried up to Mona. "I'm going to make my way round."

I stumbled up the aisle, attempting to run, but my wounded leg protested. The goon who had rolled away was running now. I ignored him. Instead I focussed on getting to the stage, and beyond. Had to get around the building. The goons were probably flooding the place through the front entrance. If I could get behind the stage, and into the network of maintenance corridors, it would be easy. That was a big 'if.'

I reached the other stage of the auditorium and climbed up on to the stage, falling to my hands and knees. Behind me the auditorium stretched away like a cave, and Mona's shattered balcony looked small and insignificant. There were more goons making their way through the entrance. I prayed that Mona would have enough ammo, and I slipped behind the tatty velvet curtains, down a short staircase, into the dressing room corridor.

There was something unpleasant about that corridor. It was short, narrow, lined with wood and cobwebs. I couldn't help thinking about the dead voices that had once filled this corridor – the nauseous fear of the actors, the harried cries of the director, the distant murmurs of the audience. Now it was dark and silent. The smell of rot was strong back here. A tramp had, I hoped, fallen asleep in the doorway of a dressing room, wrapped in an old army blanket. I guessed this was a cool shelter from the heat, if nothing else. From behind one of the old doors, all of them topped with faded silver stars, I could hear murmured conversation. I gently pressed an ear against the door.

"Yeah, I been working with Hades for a few years now, since back when he was a capo, and trust me when I say this, he's one bad mother," an Italian-American voice explained. "I mean, there was this one guy who tried fiddling the old Don out of some cash. So Hades finds him, and grabs him, and nails his shirt to the wall, and he says, 'You're going to realise that messing with the Don was a big mistake.' Then he kicks the guys legs out from under him and leaves him hang on his own shirt."

"Ouch," another voice grunted. "I hear he shoots people who screw up."

"Yeah, wouldn't surprise me," the first speaker said. "So we'd best not screw up, huh? Pass me that smoke."

I kicked open the door. It flew back on its hinges and I leapt in like a demon, gun close to hand. The two speakers didn't have a chance. The Italian-American dropped his cigarette and went to cry out. I shot him three times and he spun to the floor. His partner reached for his gun. I terminated his existence with a shot to the head, and he fell back in his rusty seat.

Hades, I thought, as the smoke cleared. I'd seen his file back in the precinct. George 'Harvard' Desoto. One of the smartest mobsters in the city. Had a college degree under his belt. Could have gone on to better things, but he was tight in the mafia, and he found that there was more money to be had selling blow and V. He rose up quickly to become one of the don's capos, and probably would have taken over the family, but he never got the chance – I put paid to that career when I went after the family four years ago. The don was killed, his family disbanded. There was a big police investigation, the Valkyr industry collapsed, and whatever was left of one of the city's largest crime families fell into the hands of the inept Vinnie Gognitti. Hades took his men and instead began to take jobs from whoever was willing to pay him the most. Hired mercenaries, who occasionally pulled off bank jobs and such.

I wasn't surprised that it had been Hades behind all this. He had the manpower, sure. The only piece that didn't fit was why? Our force had kept a file on him, and we'd been after him for a while, but we were no more a risk to his operation than any other precinct in the city. Why would he want us wiped out? Why would he go after me? I knew exactly where to find the answers. I slipped through the door and out into the winding corridor.

To be continued…


	11. Chapter Ten

**PART ONE: The Shadow Before**

**_Chapter Ten: All An Illusion_**

Thoughts raced through my head as I made my way through the rat-runs behind the building. Everything back here seemed like part of some huge and ancient machine. Overhanging metal rails, pulleys, gears, metal stepladders and walkways, all running along narrow corridors in between stages. A lot of the stuff was old and rusted, but still usable. Occasionally I'd pass the slumped-over form of a homeless man.

So Hades had ordered the hit. That explained the cop uniforms. His men had pulled on the uniforms and entered the precinct unquestioned. Then, when they got inside, they opened fire. After taking out everyone in the precinct, they'd have found out I was out, and then they'd taken the next logical step. They'd headed for my home, without changing their uniforms.

It all fit neatly. It all made sense. But instead of closure, I was left with more questions. Who ordered the hit? How did they get hold of those cop uniforms? Where the hell did Mona fit into all this?

Mona.

My heart almost froze. I'd nearly forgotten about her. I broke into a run.

As I began to scale a rickety iron walkway, I heard the voices.

"No sign of Payne, boss," a voice called out into a walkie-talkie. There was a loud 'click' as he closed the message, then another as a fuzzy voice replied.

"Keep looking. He's somewhere behind the stage. Find him, and bring him to me. I want to work over that bastard personally."

Even beneath the fuzz of the static I recognised Hades' voice. Gruff, deep, and very angry.

"He's taken a few bullets and a nasty fall," the goon said. "He's looking a little rough. Don't know how much longer he'll be on his feet anyway."

"Take no chances," Hades commanded. "He's escaped before with worse. I'm sure you've heard what happened when he went after the family."

There was silence, then, "Yes, boss."

"Hit him in the leg. Both legs, if possible. And the arm. Make sure you disarm him. If he can get to a gun he'll find a way out. This man doesn't miss. I want him conscious when you bring him to me. I've got my tools here."

I crept silently up the stairs. After a short distance I could make out the shapes of the goons, standing on the walkway, peering around nervously. I slipped an arm inside my jacket.

"Okay," the goon said. "We'll keep an eye out."

As he released his finger from the send button, the harsh click bouncing off the thin wooden walls and vanishing up in the spidery rafters, I leapt into view and opened fire.

The walkie-talkie flew out of the goon's hand and rattled down on the walkway. From somewhere down the end I could hear Hades crying out hysterically. His words were lost in the hum of static.

The goons were fast. The walkie-talkie goon managed to get in a burst of Uzi before I'd even had time to react. They all flew over my head as I leapt forward, and my shot blew a neat hole in his jacket at the heart level. He let out a choked cry and fell to the floor. Three bullets hit his friend – two in the torso and one in the arm. He fumbled to the floor, making a desperate grab for the walkie-talkie. I walked forward.

"Boss," he choked, one slippery hand on his chest. He was bleeding like a stuck pig. "It's Payne. Back in the walkways up from the dressing room. It's.. oh, man…"

He released his finger from the send button and stared up at me hopelessly. Smiling, I reached down and pried the walkie-talkie from his bloody fingers. His eyes rolled backwards and he stuttered helplessly the word "Please."

I was just in time to hear Hades' colourful answer.

"What?" he cried. "What the hell is going on out there? Speak to me, Carlos! Speak to me!"

I waited until he was done, then I depressed the send button.

"Hades," I chuckled. "So this is what you're doing these days. I'd have thought you'd have maybe improved your boy's trigger fingers a little. I've seen clay pigeons put out more resistance."

"Payne," he snarled. "That you, Payne?"

"It ain't Lee Van Cleaf."

"You'll pay for this, you son of a bitch. I know exactly where you are. I'm going to send every man in this building after your scrawny hide, you know that? You're going to be nailed to the god-damn wall."

"Run, run, as fast as you can, you couldn't catch your own ass with both hands. I'm coming up to see you, Georgie. It's been a while. I've dropped the whole police brutality thing since then. I hope you've made your peace with the big guy."

Hades was on the brink of shooting the walkie-talkie. "You'll die here, Payne! You and the bitch!"

"Maybe," I said. "But I'll make damn sure you all come with me. Like your little friend here."

I pointed my gun at the squirming figure at my feet. He looked up at me wildly and began to cry, "No. Please, no. Please…"

"Got anything to say to your boss?" I held the walkie-talkie to his mouth.

"No, PLEASE!" he screamed.

I pulled the trigger. There was a crackle down the line. Then silence.

"See you round, big boy," I said, and threw the walkie-talkie over the side of the walkway. It hit the ground somewhere below and shattered. A damn shame, I thought. I'd have given anything to hear Hades' response to that one.

There was a loud thud from behind me. Rushing footsteps. Hades had wasted no time.

I followed the walkway along, and up the staircase, to the control room.

To be continued…


	12. Chapter Eleven

**PART ONE: The Shadow Before**

**_Chapter Eleven: The Prince of Hell_**

The footsteps soon faded away behind me as I approached the wooden door to which all the walkways eventually gravitated – the central hub. The brain of the building. The control room. Lights were adjusted, curtains raised, pulleys and cogs controlled. One man could run the whole building, sat in this room. It now served a very different function. One man was controlling something very different behind this door.

Hades voice was clearly audible even through the door. The muffled cries were drenched in tight frustration. He was attempting to organise his men, but it was like holding back a swollen river. They had the target. Screw anything else.

I kicked the door open. It swung back on its hinges and slammed hard against the wall. George Harvard Desoto, Hades, prince of Hell, spun around and almost cried out in horror. His walkie-talkie fell to the floor.

Seeing such sudden fright take over Hades was startling. He was a huge man – well over six foot, and just as wide. He had no neck. His rippled, ox-like body was wrapped in a long brown trench-coat. The collar was flicked up, around a neat black buzz cut. He wore a tight grey muscle vest and white cords beneath, every muscle clearly visible. As were the two Desert Eagles slid neatly into his holster.

I shot him in the chest. It didn't pay to waste time with a man like Hades. He fell backwards, one beefy hand clutching his torso, blood seeping between his fingers. A pair of cold grey eyes stared up at me with something closer to rage than pain.

"Payne, you bastard," he growled.

I shut the door behind me and slammed the lock home. I didn't want any distractions. And I wanted some answers.

I walked towards Hades. He had fallen to one knee and was peering up at me expectantly.

"You meddling bastard," he repeated.

I laid the gun on his temple. "Meddling? I'd call it self-defence. You brought this crap on to me. I didn't ask for any of this."

"You should never have stuck your damn nose in where it wasn't wanted. And neither should that bitch."

I only resisted pulling the trigger with the greatest mental struggle. My finger was quivering. "I want some answers, Hades. And you're selling them."

"I'm not telling you anything. You can't make me suffer anywhere near what he can. You don't scare me."

"Want to try that out?"

Hades chuckled. His eyes were glistening. He was choking back the pain. "You've made a big mistake, Max. You have no idea what you're messing with."

"This routine is getting old. I'm offering you the chance to get out of here sans the bullet where your brains used to be. You tell me what Mr Big slipped you the cash to nail Bravura and take a shot at me, and I'll go pay him a visit. He won't touch you."

"It's not that simple. It's too big. We're talking government here. You can't win this one."

I sighed. "Don't go thinking you're not dispensable, because you are. I just want to save some time and a few more lives. I don't care how many of you creeps I've got to work on before one of you fingers the bad guy, do you understand?"

Hades only smiled. It was a smile of victory. It was a smile I wasn't about to crack. I shivered. You never heard about this sort of loyalty in Hades' line of work, least of all from Hades. When the hired hands had a Beretta against their heads, they generally talked. What did it matter if bad things happened to their employer? It wasn't their problem. They've been paid either way. This wasn't the way things happened. Not unless this was something pretty damn serious.

Rushing footsteps outside the door. Excited cries. Lots of itchy trigger fingers. I lost my attention for just a split second, the tiniest fraction of time, but it was enough for Hades to swing a fist into my gut, throwing me back against the monitors, and leap to his feet, reaching into his holsters for the two Desert Eagles.

I didn't think, and it probably saved my life. Instead I leapt across the room as Hades opened fire, a punishing barrage that blew out circuitry and whole chunks of wood. As I fell behind the cover of an old desk I could feel the wind off each individual bullet as it skimmed just centimetres away from me before taking huge chunks out of the wall. I felt a brief flash of pain as a bullet grazed against my ankle. Blood flowed into my sock. I winced and threw my back against the desk as behind me Hades continued to empty both guns.

I didn't breathe until the shooting ended and the air was hazy with smoke. I'd gotten lucky. Had I just been a little too slow my guts would have been decorating the wall. No time to waste. Hades was moving towards the death, emptying the clip, reloading…

I jumped out of my hiding place and landed square on Hades chest. He outweighed me by at least fifty pounds, but I had surprise on my side, and both my and Hades were thrown across the room. Hades landed hard on the smoking monitors, letting out a little wince as I knocked the air out of him. Fighting for every precious second, I pinned down Hades' hands and head-butted him. An icy pain briefly exploded in my temple, but there was a loud crunch and blood gushed from Hades' nose until it looked like he was wearing a red beard.

I squeezed on his wrists and twisted them hard until I could hear the tendons scream. Hades opened his mouth to cry out and the guns fell to the floor. I brought up a knee and slammed it hard in his gut, then released his left wrist and punched him hard in the eye. It swelled up instantly and turned a fiery red. I punched him again, going for the knockout, trying to disable him, but it was like punching a wall of muscle. His lip split and a tooth flew to the back of his throat. I punched him again, almost unable to stop, riding the adrenaline. Riding the rage.

He gathered enough of himself together to kick me off. I fell backwards, landing on the desk. Hades stood weakly on two legs like jelly. His face was a bloody mess. His wrists were useless. But something inside him refused to go down. I guessed he was like me. Even at the very brink of death, even when every muscle seems to be screaming for rest, you just can't silence that voice that says Stand Up. Maybe it was just as well. He was crouching shakily, reaching slowly for his guns.

Time to end it. To put George Harvard Desoto out of his misery. Outside the backup was slamming hard on the door and the hinges were starting to budge.

I reached for my Beretta.

I pulled the trigger.

Hades jumped, threw his head back, cried out. Blood splattered hard on the window over the auditorium. I pulled it again. Hades cried out. He stumbled backwards. I pulled the trigger one final time and he tumbled over the monitor and through the huge window, falling in a shower of glass to the forest of seats below.

Slowly, almost unthinkingly, I climbed up on to the monitors so that I stood over the window, the auditorium spread out below me like a weird relief map. Hades lay like a dead mug in a patch of shattered seats, a huge puddle of blood spreading beneath him. To my horror, I realised that he was still alive. And still conscious. I pointed my Beretta at him.

"You can't win, Max," he cried out, his voice sounding strained and weak. As he spoke a huge clot of blood spilled from out of his swollen mouth and spilled down his cheek. "It's too big. Too big. They'll find you Max, and they'll finish you."

I prepared to pull the trigger.

Hades was reaching for something from his back, beneath the trench-coat. When I saw what he dragged out, sudden panic rushed through me in a harsh green wave. A long black cable, every bit as threatening as a cobra. A detonator.

"Twelve pounds of plastic," Hades cried up, and I suddenly realised that he was smiling. A horrible, bloody last laugh. I'd take that smile to my grave. "Little contingency plan. I'd rather this to what he'd do to me."

Now he was cackling wildly.

"See you in hell, Payne!" he roared, and flicked the detonator switch.

Suddenly the auditorium was rushing up to meet me in a horrible heat wave, and my world fell into blackness.

To be continued…


	13. Epilogue

**PART ONE: The Shadow Before**

**_Epilogue_**

Around me the auditorium collapsed in flames. The room was an inferno. The spot in which the late George 'Harvard' Desoto terminated his existence was now a flaming crater in a sea of shattered seats, looking like a picture of a nuclear test in a forest, with all the trees fallen around the blast.

I pushed myself up in the wreckage of the control room. By the sounds of things the explosion had spooked whatever of Hades' men were left and they'd decided to flee. At least I didn't have that to worry about any more. Small mercy, I guessed.

Hunks of flaming debris continued to fall – pieces of seats, hunks of wood. I staggered and choked on smoke and fumes. The edge of the control room, where I had been standing just minutes ago, had been taken off by the blast and now lay along the roof somewhere and mostly over the office. If I crawled to the edge of the wreckage, I could just about see one of the gods nearby.

"Mona!" I cried out, over the crackle of the fire.

A part of me, a strong part, wasn't expecting a response. If she'd somehow managed to hold off all of Hades' men, there was still the explosion. Which was why, when a weak voice replied, "I'm here, Max!" my heart raced with such fire I thought it would burst.

I leapt from the jagged edge of what had once been the control room, shattered floorboards crumbling beneath my toes, and landed hard on the nearest god. The heat from the flames was incredible. My body was soaked in a thin sheen of sweat. I pushed myself up and walked across it. Mona was still on the broken god, resting against the wall, surrounded by used shells. She looked as if she'd aged twenty years since I'd left her.

"Stay there, Mona!" I called over to her. "I'll be there any second now!"

I ducked through the door behind the gods, into a passageway that connected all the balconies. Out here the air was heavy with smoke, but the inferno seemed a little more distant – a loud crackling, the occasional crash of falling debris. I coughed and staggered along the red velvet, tears filling my stinging eyes.

That little voice. The one that just kept on telling me to stand up, swallow back the pain, ignore everything else. Finish the job. Clean up the mess. It was getting louder, somewhere inside me. You may be going blind, your throat and lungs may feel like someone's lighting a match on them, your ankle and your arm may be screaming in agony, but you damn well carry on, and don't you even dream of stopping, even if you lose those legs.

I reached the door to the god in a haze. My world was spinning. A loud crash from the room beyond jerked me to my senses and I threw open the door.

"Max," Mona coughed.

I almost had to look away. Was I too late anyway? She looked like a skeleton. Her throat seemed to have swollen. Her eyes were rimmed with red and black. For a horrible second she looked just like Maria Escobar, and I felt time seeming to double back on itself. Then she tried to stand.

I wrapped an arm around her and lifted her so that she rested on my shoulder. Don't know if she can manage the walk. I swept her off her feet and cradled her in my arms, then stopped through the door, like some twisted wedding night scene – the groom carrying the limp corpse of his wife over the burning threshold. I barely noticed her weight in my arms.

We made our back through the building whilst behind us the fire greedily consumed everything. Occasionally a wall would come down, or you'd hear a distant explosion. Now and again you'd hear rushing footsteps and panicked screams – the last of Hades' men, maybe. Leaderless and scattered.

The exit wasn't a glorious ray of sunlight, or a well-guarded gate like something from King Kong. It was an old rusty fire exit with a faded green sign. I kicked it down and it screeched on its hinges, and suddenly we were stumbling into a back alley in the sweltering heat of the New York night and taking big, greedy breaths of oxygen.

I carried Mona to the edge of the alley, laid her down against a wall and, beneath the glow of an orange security light, rested my head in my hands. I could still hear the building blazing, but there were sirens coming now. Police, fire service, ambulance, the whole thing.

I thought about stepping out of the lane into the middle of the whole circus, of throwing up my hands and giving it all up. Then I realised that it'd be a huge mistake. If whoever wanted me dead was as powerful as Hades said – and after vaporising himself I didn't doubt it – seeking police protection would be like signing my execution. I thought of Troy Novak, and I shuddered.

Behind me Mona groaned.

"Max," she coughed. "Max, come here."

I leaned down next to her. There was raw fear in her eyes now.

"I've got it, Max," she said. "Miasma. I've got it."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"It's all connected," she said. "I don't know how, but it is. I was working on the same case as you, Max. I've got an insider who reckons it's man-made. I followed up his lead and it led to that address I gave you. You want the answers, go there yourself. I couldn't piece it all together."

"Where's your insider?"

"Dead. Just like everyone else. This is big, Max. We're stepping on some big toes."

She broke off into a harsh burst of coughing, and then stared up at me, her eyes red and watery.

"I'm going to get you to a hospital," I said, lifting her up.

"No good," she rasped. "Solve the case, Max. Piece it all together."

We both walked out into the hot, indifferent night. Somewhere out in that city, someone wanted me dead. I had a feeling that if I wasn't careful they'd soon get their wish.

………………………..

**_AUTHOR'S NOTE: There will be a Part Two, but I'll probably publish it as a separate story. I'll get it up ASAP, trying to fit it in around uni and stuff. Thanks for reading the first part._**


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